


Informed Consent

by Gunshy Fiction (Defiler_Wyrm)



Series: Bedroom Hymns [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consent Play, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, forked tongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Gunshy%20Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam chooses his words carefully, and a shoe drops. </p>
<p>Excerpt:<br/><i>Another night there are lips pressing into his skin like brands and a grip on his hip that’s like granite, like steel. ”You need me, Sam,” the angel growls, and Sam agrees with reedy whimpers and arching spine. The grasp gentles immediately, thumb stroking the arch of his bones, and hours pass in the dream this way.  This is Lucifer, he’s learning: all dominance and dominion and </i>demand<i> until he gets what he wants. This is Sam, too, he’d rather not admit: something in him sings at the Adversary’s touch and begs completion.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Informed Consent

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually not sure if this should be rated Mature or Explicit but I'm gonna err on the side of caution.

Sam never says Yes. Not exactly.

He’s careful about it — has to be, this is a dangerous game he’s playing, a razor-thin edge he can’t help but walk. Dream after dream a Fallen angel comes to him. Time after time he recoils and tells him no. Night after night Lucifer stalks him, pressing closer, reaching out to touch, and night by night Sam allows him a little more near.

But he never says Yes.

Cold fingers trail up his legs from ankle to thigh and those eyes (those ancient blue eyes) spear him down to the bed like shackles. A murmured, “Is this alright?” is met with Sam’s sigh of, “That’s okay,” and Lucifer’s borrowed lips quirk.

Another night there are lips pressing into his skin like brands and a grip on his hip that’s like granite, like steel. ”You need me, Sam,” the angel growls, and Sam agrees with reedy whimpers and arching spine. The grasp gentles immediately, thumb stroking the arch of his bones, and hours pass in the dream this way.  This is Lucifer, he’s learning: all dominance and dominion and  _demand_  until he gets what he wants. This is Sam, too, he’d rather not admit: something in him sings at the Adversary’s touch and begs completion.

There are other things he’s careful not to say.

All it takes is once. Lucifer’s mouth is on him again, Lucifer’s shoulders pressed to the backs of his thighs, Sam’s toes curling tight and head craning to watch slack-jawed – Jesus his tongue  _is_  forked and it wraps and slithers around his length. He’s far beyond rational thought so when Sam slips and groans,  _Oh_ ,  _God_ , it takes a moment to process the enraged betrayal in the archangel’s eyes before he disappears without a word.

He can’t stay away, though, and gradually these visits regain their tempo. Still Sam never tells him Yes.

When he’s stretching around the crook of a finger it’s  _That’s good_  and eventually _More_.

When Lucifer pushes Sam’s knees into his chest it’s  _Fuck me, do it_ , an impudent _Show me what you’ve got_  that ends with a broken bed.

When he’s face-down in a pillow begging for release it’s body-wracking shivers and raw-throated wails that never manage to become real words.

And when his nails are dragging welts into the Devil’s back as his thighs shake and Lucifer whispers quiet, terrible things into his ear (Can you feel that? You need me inside you, Sam, you were made for me, are you ready to come for me?) it’s _Harder, fuck me, I need to come, please Lucifer please please want you so fucking bad_  and it’s never the Yes he wants to hear but in the moment it’ll do.

In the mornings he finds himself tangled in sheets gone slick with sweat and semen and the memory of cold lips crushed to his so strong he expects to find bruises on his skin. It’s the end of the world — easy enough to pass off the guilt that haunts him through the day as something else when Dean casts glances his way.

At least until the morning the bruises are actually there.

He’s not sure he signed up for that.


End file.
